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If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not toalter me.
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I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now.
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Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime...
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The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.
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What thing, in honor, had my father lost, That need to be revived and breathed in me?
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Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
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Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.
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Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service
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I must be cruel, only to be kind.
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I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.
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Nice customs curtsy to great kings.
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To hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature.
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thus with a kiss I die
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Out of this nettle - danger - we pluck this flower - safety.
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From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.
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Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud.
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Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.
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The arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just.
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Doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born.
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Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
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Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
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Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.
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Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
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Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!